Best Little Whorehouse in Skyrim
by Shannon Vega
Summary: The Dragonborn defeated Alduin, Miraak and Harkon because that's what she had to do to save the world. But her true claim to fame—the one only spoken of in scandalized whispers—is that she is the madame of the finest brothel in all of Skyrim.
1. Chapter 1

Summary: After defeating Alduin, Harkon, and Miraak, the Dragonborn can get back to what she does best: being the best madame of the best brothel in Skyrim. Inspired by a prompt on the Elder Scrolls kinkmeme site.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Skyrim and the Elder Scrolls games are owned by other people-people with lawyers and budgets and huge creative teams. This story is only for fun and I promise not to break the characters too, too much.

Author's Note: Feedback is welcome and constructive criticism is always welcome as well.

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**Best Little Whorehouse In Skryim**

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**Chapter One**

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Brighe was used to her friend Itan-Ru looking at her like she was crazy. She'd known the emerald-scaled Argonian since she was twelve and working in her first brothel, the male Argonian serving as muscle and protection in the High Rock establishment. Since then he'd become one of her best friends—a friendship that had been highly profitable for both in the six years since they'd first met. When she'd suggested, all those months ago, that they strike out on their own and start their own establishment in Skyrim, he'd thought her mad-and told her so on a regular basis.

But she persisted, needling the mellow Argonian with constant suggestions on how they could run their own brothel. The clients and prestige they could garner by breaking into a market previously untapped. Finally he'd agreed. Together they'd set out from High Rock, their gold split between the two, their intended destination the stone-wrought city of Markarth.

A good plan, if not for a certain ambush at Darkwater Crossing. And the dragons. Can't forget the dragons, after all.

Finding out she was 'Dragonborn' wasn't exactly part of Brighe's plan. In fact, it had no part of her plans, if she was honest—which she rarely was. She'd become an adept liar in her eighteen years of life, learning what tales to spin to get the man or woman or mer in her company to give her what she wanted and needed. Being Dragonborn did open certain doors though. Namely with Jarls. If she'd been interested in becoming 'respectable' Brighe might have stayed in some of those cities for more than a day or two—but each place was just a stepping stone—a stopover. Dealing with Alduin—ending the vampire threat from Harkon—even defeating Miraak—it was all with her end-game in mind. After all, if the world went to Oblivion then what use would there be for her brothel?

Finally she'd been able to put her own desires into play and had made her way towards her true destination. Markarth. She'd promised Itan-Ru, as she held his butchered corpse amidst the chaos of the dragon attack on Helgen, that she would make it to Markarth and start their brothel. It wasn't too many weeks before she finally was striding through the bronze doors of the ancient Dwemer city, only to find herself confronted by a knife-wielding madman.

Instinct overtook her in that instant and her dagger found its mark across the man's throat, dropping him before he could gut the woman he'd been screaming at. No different than the scum that sometimes washed up on the doorstep of a brothel, she thought to herself as she wiped her blade on his jerkin before tucking it back into its sheath. Happy to let the local guards take over and that no one was threatening to throw her into a cell, she hurried up the hill.

Jarls, it seemed, were like most other nobles—they liked to have a view. And the view from the hilltop dominated by the Jarl's palace ws spectacular. Stone arches and walkways and waterfalls—she could get used to a view like this, she supposed. And soon she was doing just that, having curried enough favor with the Jarl (thank the Gods she had good knees and no gag reflex to speak of) that he let her purchase a house in town.

And a fine house it was. High atop twisting, twining staircases of stone, her new home would be the perfect spot for her business. She grinned as she pushed open the doors and found herself facing quite possibly the finest ass encased in leather that she'd ever seen. Blonde. Nord. And all hers, according to the Jarl she'd left a panting mess on his throne. Argis, he'd said.

"My Thane," called out the blonde god as he turned to face Brighe. "I did not expect your arrival so soon."

Brighe shrugged, shutting the door behind her. The house was large—what she could see of it. It would more than suffice for her plans. "I always like to come as early and often as possible, Argis. You'll learn that quite well," she purred, striding towards the broad-shouldered Nord. His cheeks pinked slightly at her innuendo-laced words and she allowed a small chuckle. "Don't you fret, my big strong housecarl—I wouldn't dream of taking advantage of your loyalty," she promised. "Now, let's take a look around this place and see what will work and what won't."

It didn't take her long to realize that, with some minor modifications, the house would serve her purposes very well. With the broad-shouldered Nord warrior to help her, she soon had the house in order. Stone beds were removed in favor of properly wide beds that could sleep several across—with mattresses and all the accoutrements of comfort. And soon a roster of men and women of beast, mer and men began to fill each and every room.

There was Bahdahni, a beautiful Khajit with the most beautiful ebony pelt she'd ever seen. Paired with the female's startling sapphire blue eyes and luscious body, she was becoming an equal favorite of both men and women. It helped that she had a slightly perverse sense of humor that Brighe could appreciate. And that she purred. Then there were the Argonian twins Chalur and Huleed—two males from Windhelm with matching scales of moss green and black and cocks that had wonderful knobs and ridges to please even the hardiest soul. The brothers were special favorites of a young woman who worked in the alchemy shop and would pound the girl Muiri for hours, the lithe brunette screaming out her pleasure for all to hear as she bounced between the two Argonians. Not to be outdone by the males was her very own Argonian maid, though how long and many times she'd been a 'maid' was up for some debate. Kal-Lee, with her lovely amber scales and jade green eyes, was very adept at playing her role, happy to play the innocent chambermaid to the Nords who wanted to act out a well-known fantasy. And she looked damned good in a frilly apron.

And, for a town that prided itself on being a Nord stronghold and beating back the Forsworn to make it safe for Nord sons and daughters, there was a marked demand for Mer. She counted herself fortunate that Tedril Darvel, a handsome Dunmer with eyes bright as polished garnets and shoulder-length hair of black silk, had come to her establishment. With him had come a pretty little thing, a female Dunmeri named Savile Araveli with a curvy and flexible figure. That Tedril and Savile were romantically involved wasn't a problem—they knew the game and were willing to try anything, either separately or together. Soon after Tedril and Savile's arrival, she'd hired her Bosmers, a trio of identical triplets who could fuck either man or woman with a skill she'd rarely seen. She couldn't tell them apart on a good day but Brighe gave full credit to the Three (though Argis insisted that she call them by their correct names of Anrel, Gildii, and Eindre—that wouldn't happen unless they got their names tattooed on their asses, Brighe admitted one night after too much mead) that their ability to reduce the Jarl to a gibbering mess was a sight to behold. Rounding out her roster of elves was a quite beautiful Altmer named Fainde. He had the most gorgeously expressive golden eyes, skin of the palest gold, and locks that shimmered past his shoulders in a fall of purest moonstone. She admitted that had quite the soft spot for him, though nothing romantic. He was just so pretty and he played the submissive for their clientele so well that she often found herself wanting to comfort him.

She knew that most of her clientele still hued to the lure of humans and she made a special effort to make sure to have a variety. There was the Redguard named Rithleen, her skin a rich brown that reminded Brighe of rich mohogany. Rithleen, once upon a time, had been an adventurer but she'd given it up for reasons that she didn't want to tell Brighe. Brighe let the dark beauty have her secrets—there wasn't a creature within the walls of Heljarchen Hall that didn't have at least one secret if not more. Including Brighe. Moreover, Rithleen had an exotic beauty that lured in many Nords—and she could talk warrior. A useful skill, Brighe had decided, especially since Brighe's eyes started to glaze over when warriors began talking tactics and military strategy. Many of the sellswords who came to her door asked for Rithleen by name, though it was up to Rithleen if she indeed bedded them. Those Nords who weren't interested in bedding her Redguard sometimes asked instead for one of her Nord beauties. She counted herself lucky that she'd found them. Hroki was a local beauty and well-known in the tavern. Often she had been on the receiving end of gropes and pinches, many from the Silver-Blood tavern owner. In the end Brighe had found it surprisingly easy to convince the buxom blonde that she could make more money with less work on her back. Now Hroki was a favored girl, her exuberance in bed making for entertaining conversation among Brighe's employees. Her second Nord was a harder find but well worth it. A farmboy cum mercenary, Eric had found his way to Markarth. Penniless and desperate, he'd offered his services as a mercenary to Brighe. Needless to say the Dragonborn had found it eminently sweet that he offered to protect her—and proceeded to tumble into bed with him at her first opportunity. What he lacked in…experience, she decided with a leer the next morning, he made up for with sheer stamina and the cock of a god. He'd been hesitant to come to work for her but the fact that there were quite a few gorgeous women of different races parading about in next to nothing helped to change his mind. Her only Imperial, a slender woman with golden locks and olive-tinged skin, was also an accomplished masseuese. Sabrinda Valeiu had come from the Imperial City with her lover, a captain who'd been killed by Forsworn while on patrol. Alone and in a strange city, she'd approached Brighe with the offer to work for her using her talents as a masseuse. Brighe had agreed—Sabrinda's talents were rare and, quite often, more in demand than those of her girls and boys who made their livings on their backs (or fronts, or sides, or any other position known to man or mer). Besides, Sabrinda didn't act like Brighe was a blight on the face of Markarth—it always amazed Brighe that the same men and women who happily pounded into her or sucked on one of her body parts were the first to call her a whore and demand that she be cast naked from the city.

Though, to be fair, the first bastard who'd done that had found the doors barred on his next visit and his welcome within her walls rescinded. Word had quickly spread and those who enjoyed the services of Brighe's boys and girls learned not to bite the Dragonborn that fucked them.

Lastly, she did have another Breton in the household with her. Musette was a slender thing with mousy brown hair and soft brown eyes with a talent for domination. The girl could reduce a grown man to a sobbing, whimpering mess. Brighe sometimes wondered if she should sell tickets to Musette's "sessions." Less known was Musette's…unique condition. Every morning, the brown-haired girl would descend into the cellar and fall into the deep sleep of a vampire. As long as Brighe kept a watch on her resident vampire, she was willing to allow Musette to continue to ply her trade.

Word soon spread across Skyrim that, if you were traveling to Markarth, you had to come to Brighe's house on the hill—and all your imaginings would become reality. Which was just as Brighe had planned.


	2. Ondolemar's 'Session'

Summary: After defeating Alduin, Harkon, and Miraak, the Dragonborn can get back to what she does best: being the best madame of the best brothel in Skyrim. Inspired by a prompt on the Elder Scrolls kinkmeme site.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Skyrim and the Elder Scrolls games are owned by other people-people with lawyers and budgets and huge creative teams. This story is only for fun and I promise not to break the characters too, too much. Yup, exactly the same as in Chapter One.

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**Best Little Whorehouse In Skryim**

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**Chapter Two**

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Musette nodded to Brighe as her fellow Breton slowly closed the door behind herself, leaving the Breton vampire in the company of her evening appointment. It wasn't every night that a Justicar came to call.

"A few rules, Justicar, since tonight is our first time together," purred Musette as she stalked towards the Altmer, her booted steps ringing on the stone floor. "Just in case our dear Mistress Brighe was not clear in stating the rules." She moved closer to the lean Justicar, her eyes glittering. "In here, I am your mistress. Your only mistress," she added with a purr, her fingers trailing down Ondolemar's bare throat from his chin to his sternum. One of the first things that Musette had insisted on was that the Altmer strip his heavy robes from his lean golden form. "You will speak when I give you leave and only when I allow it. My commands will be followed. Disobedience will be…punished," she smiled coldly.

Ondolemar nodded wordlessly, his skin shivering beneath her slightly cooler touch. Standing in her bedchamber in just his loincloth he felt incredibly exposed. Which was the idea. Of course he still had access to his magicks—could probably roast the vampire with a few spells—but that wasn't part of the game. For a Mer with almost unlimited power over life and death of those around him to be at the mercy of this little Breton abomination…

"You may speak now, Justicar," advised Musette as she stepped around in front of Ondolemar, drinking in the vision of the Mer so completely within her sway. "Tell me, do you want to fuck me?" she asked, false innocence wrapping her words in silk as sheer as that which draped her body.

Ondolemar nodded. "Yes, mistress," he replied, his words almost musical with his cultured cadences. "I want to fuck you, Mistress." Ah, to hear him debase himself with such crude language—and in that voice…

Musette stepped a little closer, trailing her fingers down the front of her sheer silk gown. She had chosen it especially for him—in the right light one could see every line and detail of her rounded figure. In the candlelight of her chamber, though, it was nearly opaque. "Have you earned that, my Justicar? Have you earned that privilege to sink your thick cock inside my hot, wet cunt?" she asked, her voice throaty as let her fingers drop down to his sex, her fingers wrapping around his barely clothed cock and squeezing gently. "I think not. No, you have not earned that privilege. No, you must be cleansed. You need punishing." She gave another loving squeeze to his cock before stepping away to stand before him. "On your knees, Justicar."

Ondolemar swiftly lowered himself to his knees, amber eyes watching the Breton. Hands clasped behind his back, he waited.

Musette stepped behind him, trailing her fingers from one shoulder to the other. "I wonder, what to do with you, Justicar," she pondered, her hand sliding up the back of his neck to cup the back of his head, her fingers giving his scalp a gentle scritch that nearly had him purring. Suddenly her hand twisted, catching his hair in her hand and yanking his head back so that he was looking up at her. "Since this is our first time together, Ondolemar, I shall make it abundantly clear to you. You will obey me."

Ondolemar swallowed as he winced. "Yes, Mistress," he replied, forgetting that he had not been given leave to speak. Or deciding to speed along the game.

Musette's open hand cracked across his cheek. "I did not give you leave to speak, Justicar," she purred, leaning closer so that her breath feathered across his reddened cheek. "A lesson. That is what is needed. On your feet, Justicar."

Ondolemar rose again and waited, forcing his hands not to rise to his rapidly swelling cheek. Permanent damage was not the goal, he knew. And he would be downing at least one healing potion at the end of this 'session.' But it didn't mean that, in the meantime, his cheek didn't hurt. Again, the pain was part of the game. Keeping silent this time, he waited as Musette crossed to the far wall and pulled back a curtain.

Musette glanced over her shoulder at the Altmer mage, brown eyes glittering. She was glad that she'd fed from Brighe earlier—seeing the Justicar willing to obey might have caused her to feed from him if he'd been willing. And she could make him willing. "Come here, Justicar," she ordered, watching as the long-limbed Altmer strode towards her, "it is time for your punishment to begin."

Moments later Ondolemar stood facing the wall, his hands and feet bound with heavy iron shackles. The shackles were lined with a soft fur that he could not place but that didn't lessen the feeling of powerlessness that washed deliciously over the Altmer.

Musette stepped back, taking in the vision of this golden-skinned Mer bound so prettily against the stone wall. "Ah, lovely, my dear Justicar. You play this game well." She stepped to him again, her sharp fingers trailing down his back to cup the globes of his ass as she stripped his loincloth from him. "Now, let us begin. Feel free to voice your appreciation, Justicar."

Ondolemar arched in pain as he felt whips of electricity snap across his back and ass. Over and over again the magicks wrapped around him, sizzling over his flesh and slicing fresh gouges into his pretty skin. His shouts of pain echoed through the room as he thrashed against the stone wall, wrenching against the manacles at his wrists and ankles as he mindlessly tried to escape. Finally he hung panting against the stones, eyes unfocused as his body absorbed the pain before he finally blacked out.

It was a long while before he began to come back to himself, the orgasmic warmth of healing magicks spreading through him. He was no longer hanging from the wall, instead lying flat on his belly in another room. A quick glance over his shoulder told him that it was not Musette casting Healing Hands on him but the mistress of the house, her expression full of concern. To his unasked question she shook her head, her fingers gingerly trailing over the once-ruined flesh. "No scars. No marks at all remain, Justicar. Did you enjoy your session with our Musette?" she asked, rocking back on her heels to face the Altmer as he slowly pulled himself upright on the settee.

Reaching out, Ondolemar caught his fist in her hair, dragging her across the narrow space to catch the madame's lips in a bruising kiss. "Aye, Mistress Brighe. I enjoyed it immensely. I think I shall be visiting regularly," he advised with a grin as he pulled the Breton madame down to lie beside him.


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